Mercy
by Vivien99
Summary: Over ten years after war with spain the next war erupted and brought the Muskteers to the border of italia. Older, more experienced but also exhausted and battle-weary they face this next battle, praying that they can come back to their families. WARNING (and Spoiler!) death-fic
1. Chapter 1

**Mercy for the merciless**

 _So this is slightly AU. The musketeers are older now, all grown up and at the end of their best years. They all have stayed in the regiment, unlike in the Series finale. Please remember that this is no historical biography and I'm just making some things up, because it's late and I don't want to research. Don't take any information from this for your doctoral thesis._

 _This was actually supposed to be a short one-shot... didn't work out! So have fun with this first chapter, a second will follow._

* * *

"Jesus, I will arise. Jesus do thou accompany me. Jesus, do thou lock my heart into thine, And let my body and my soul be commended unto thee. The Lord is crucified. May God guard and protect my senses so that misfortunes may not overcome me. In the name of God the Father, Son, and the Holy-"

"How is god supposed to block a bullet from hitting you or a sword from piercing you?" Josef laughed and some of the other soldiers joined in. Aramis didn't look back over his shoulder as he kissed the crucifix between his fingers and mumbled an "Amen." Just then he stood up warily, his bones and muscles arching from the last battles.

His body was tired and wasn't recovering as fast a few years ago. The war with Italy had started about an year ago and since then the musketeer fought at the front again. Every man that fell was replaced within hours, the age of the new soldiers became younger, their chances to survive shrunk. Aramis had noticed long ago that religion became less important for the people in France, the younger generation didn't see the sense in it. He was weary of arguing, weary of explaining this to those inexperienced men. They would die anyway so why make the effort? Most of them never reached the age of 25, none of them had fought in battle before since the last war was over ten years ago. None of them knew what it meant to lose every friend and brother they got and return home to a different country. None of them had served for more than a few years, none of them stood a chance. Aramis felt pity for them and their families, still he was annoyed by the disrespectful boys.

"He doesn't, lad." Aramis walks by the group of young men, straightened his shoulders on his way and tried to limb as little as possible. They were right, God had never saved him from a blade or bullet and his leg was the best example for it. It had been about four months ago as one of the Italians hit his thigh, the blade cut so deep that muscles and nerves were ripped apart. It had healed enough that he could fight and walk again, but the slight limping would never go away again.

On the other hand, the blade had also cut deep enough to course a heavy flow of blood, he had been on the edge. But there was God, his faith and strength, and it had saved him from leaving his brothers behind.

He walked into the tent of the Captain, the guards not even caring to stop him as he pushed through them. Porthos and d'Artagnan already sat around the small table, studying the map and arguing about the best way to attack.

Athos listened to their arguments, making his own additions in his thoughts. He greeted the marksman with one of his invisible smiles and pushed a chair for him back. "You came in the right moment. We're thinking were to put our marksmen."

Aramis bent forward and took a glance at the card, before pointing his finger onto two hills to the left and right of the battlefield. "Told you!" Porthos grinned at d'Artagnan, who crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. "You're being childish." The younger man exclaimed and caused Porthos to laugh loudly.

Aramis couldn't help but smile, glad to have his brothers still around him, full of life and enthusiasm. The war had left it's scars on each of them, but they weren't to brought down by it. D'Artagnan had missed the birth of his third child, a son, about half a year ago. After being injured in a battle short after – it hadn't been anything grave, only a slight concussion – Athos had offered him to send him home to his family. But d'Artagnan had denied, unable to leave his brothers.

Porthos weren't in Paris as the house of him, Elodie and Marie-Cessette had burned down. Luckily none was injured or worse, but they were left with nothing but the small amount of money he sent them. Sylvie had been there, took them in even though the apartment of her and Athos hadn't been very large.

A few weeks ago, Athos had been injured in battle – a bullet hit his sword arm and forced him to stay behind for the following time. He still had a scarf bent around the arm and shoulder to take some weight of it and wasn't allowed to fight for some more weeks.

But in comparison to everything else that could have happened to them in the past year, the outcome looked pretty good in Aramis' eyes. They were soldiers and came to fight and lay their lifes down for the king and alone being alive was more than they could have wished for. They were almost in their fortys – d'Artagnan not that close to it than the others – and still fighting, still fulfilling their duty. They were only few soldiers that reached such an age and still served, most of them died in battle much earlier or were so heavily injured that they had to retire.

"When will we attack?" Aramis then asked and poured some wine in his cup.

"Two hours. Everything's prepared and the sun will be blinding them." Athos explained as he leaned back in his chair.

 _Two hours later…_

"Let not any of our enemies, thieves, bandits, or evil-doers approach us, if they do not intend to bring to us what was intended from your Holy Altar. Turn around their evil intent to glorify your name."

Aramis kissed his crucifix, loaded the last of his four muskets he had brought with him and laid down on his stomach.

"Are you scared?" The young soldier beside him asked with a raised brow. Aramis chuckled and shook his head. "I'm not scared of battle or of death. It's my duty isn't it. Still, I dare to pray and hope that it may save my brothers. It's never me I'm scared about."

The young man nodded as he seemed to understand and laid down beside him. "I have lost a good friend a month ago." He admitted and earned a sad smile from Aramis. "I'm sorry to hear that." The lad sighed and focused back on the task at hand.

A deathly silence hung over the battlefields and the hills that surrounded it. With his eagle-like eyes Aramis could easily make his brothers out as they stood at the front of the French soldiers. Athos sat high on his horse, for all to see that their leader was with them even though he couldn't fight. Athos had promised them to stay back once the battle started. Porthos and d'Artagnan flanked him, swords drawn and battle-hungry smiles on their faces.

And then, suddenly, a shout erupted, metal clashed and men joined the shout. It was like two waves that crashed against each other, metal met metal and bullets met flesh. Aramis took down four men, reloaded and did the same again. The marksmen were fast with their task, efficient as well. He had chose them by himself, each one had a steady hand and good eye like he. Nearly every shot found it's aim and soon the Italians were reduced and the bullets of the French marksmen empty.

Aramis got up to his feed, holding his sword high and waved towards the battlefield for all to see. Another, smaller wave crashed into the ocean of bodies and death.

While running, Aramis took a moment to make out his brothers. As promised, Athos had stayed behind with a few other Generals and injured soldiers. He observed the battle with a frown and searched for his brothers as well. Aramis made out a glimpse of a sword before it pushed itself into a mans stomach. He followed the bloody blade up towards the familiar hilt and further upwards towards d'Artagnans face. He was still alive and Aramis heart felt a bit lighter at this thought. There was no time to search for Porthos as the first enemies approached him.

They were terrible outnumbered, had been the whole war.

Only the well thought-out strategies from their Captains had brought them that far and saved at least a few lifes. Still, each of the battles could be the last for them and for France. The Italians had already come into the country far beyond the border – too close to French villages.

Aramis felt the familiar burning in his thigh, but there was no way he would let that affect him as he slashed his blade further into the skins of his opponents. His strikes were well-placed, fast, swift, almost graceful as he made his way through the field. Blood splashed into his face, dirtied his hands and clothes but he remembered that he did this to save the lifes of others. As long this wasn't French blood it was alright for now, he could later let the guilt for his sins wash over him. No was not the time. He felt his muscles burn and heart race as he had reached d'Artagnan. They now stood back to back, their swords pointed at eight soldiers that had circled them.

A dagger still stuck in d'Artagnan's arm, forcing him to fight only with his sword. His own dagger was lost in the mud beneath their feet. He shared a brief look with his brother, thankful that he had found him, thankful that he knew his back was save. Aramis let out a dangerous roar as the first soldiers approached, slicing them down merciless. He knew that d'Artagnan wouldn't be able to hold his own much long as they were so highly outnumbered. The lad may have been an excellent swordsmen but with one sword against four even he had only a little chance. Aramis didn't lose time with his usual little dances, the game he liked to play with opponent. He moved even faster, adrenalin giving him the strength he needed.

The time he had cut down his fourth opponent, d'Artagnan had managed to take down one of his. Aramis no took the place beside his brother, a bloody grin pointed at the Italians as they approached carefully – slowly, almost scared.

Aramis jumped forward and forced the first man's attention on him. From the corner of his eye he noticed how the other two strode towards d'Artagnan, unfortunately his own opponent was also well trained and not easy to kill.

Knowing about the trouble his brother was in, Aramis turned around for only a second to throw his dagger in one of the other two mens backs. The body slumped to the ground immediately and saved d'Artagnan from a deathly stroke to his head.

Unfortunately this one second was enough for Aramis own opponent to get a lucky hit as he pushed his blade through the marksman's side. Aramis groaned, his knees buckled but he forced himself to stay upright. His hand found the bloody part of his body fast and was immediately slicked with red liquid. He pushed his pain and worry aside, attacking the Italian again.

Porthos had seen how d'Artagnan fought only one handed with a well-skilled soldier and then his gaze drifted towards Aramis, who found a blade in his side only seconds later. The tall man let out a scream of rage as he ran through the battlefield, stumbling over corpses. He didn't give the approaching enemies any attention, cut them down in seconds before he finally reached his wounded brothers.

The battle had already died down, as on either side were only a few soldiers left. But the group that had surrounded them wouldn't back up, closing up at the three musketeers more and more.

Porthos hadn't missed how Aramis swayed and was barely staying upright, neither had he missed how d'Artagnan had ripped the blade out of his shoulder and had thrown it at Aramis' latest opponent. Blood now flowed fastly out of the shoulder wound, urging Porthos to end this quick.

Fury and worry filled him, making the fight unfair for his enemies. A few more italians fell, some decided to retreat.

The moment the danger was gone, Porthos was left with two of his brothers crashing to the ground.

"ARAMIS! D'ARTAGNAN!" He shouted and looked between the two, unsure to whom to go first. As Aramis was closest to him, he fell to his knees beside his dearest friend. "'Mis." The marksmans eyes fluttered open to look through blood-strained hair at Porthos. "Get him… back." Aramis whispered between ragged breaths. Porthos didn't miss the red liquid on his brothers teeth. "I won't leave you!"

Porthos looked around, desperately searching for help. It came in the form of Athos, who approached them fast on his horse and jumped from it before it even came to a halt. "What happened?"

"D'Artagnan shoulder wound, Aramis side. As much as I have seen." Porthos explained fast and pressed his hand hard onto the fast bleeding wound on his brothers body. Aramis groaned in pain, his eyes rolled back and he barely managed to stay conscious. "Save him… I can… wait." He then hissed, red stained saliva trickled down his chin.

"I take d'Artagnan and you ride back with Aramis." Athos then ordered after he had checked the condition of their youngest. D'Artagnan had lost a lot blood and was still unconscious, but with his cloak wrapped tightly around the wound, Athos had managed to stop the worst.

Porthos didn't dare to think or object the order of his friend and captain. He just did as he was told and heaved Aramis onto the horses back and jumped on it too.

"I will send you a horse!" He shouted and spurred the beast towards their camp. On horseback it was only a way of two minutes, so he was able to send Athos and d'Artagnan help fast. Porthos stopped in front of the infirmary tent and took Aramis from the animal. His brother hang limply in his arms, face pale beside the red that covered it. "D'Artagnan?" The wounded man asked barely audible as he was carried inside the tent.

"He's fine." Porthos lied. Aramis didn't need to be upset now, not now. He laid him on the next cot gently as a medic already hurried over. The man didn't even need to ask what had happened, as he found the stap wound easily.

"He will be okay, won't he?" This moment also Athos and d'Artagnan entered the tent and another medic looked after them. The lad now lay in the cot beside Aramis, the marksman able to see the unconscious face of his brother. "Care for… him first." He breathed and the gurgled sound he made in the process shattered Porthos heart.

"He is cared for, mon ami. You two are now in good hands, don't worry." Porthos laid his hand gently on his brothers face, wiping away some of the enemies blood. "God is with us now, he will make sure everyone will be fine." He murmured and hoped that faith would now give his brother strength.

Meanwhile the two medics worked fast and skilled, cleaning the wounds, sewing them.

"And? How are they?" Athos then stood up and asked as everything was done. The man who had treated to d'Artagnan smiled at him comfortingly. "He had lost a lot of blood, but I think with some rest and water he will be back to his feet in a couple of days. I only hope that he won't suffer an infection." Relief washed over them for a short moment, before they looked at the other medic.

"I've managed to stop the bleeding and blood loss won't be deathly for him… but I can't say for sure if anything vital was hit on his inside. If so, there is nothing I can do for him. We will see in the next minutes and hours."

Athos and Porthos san back down into their chairs, eyeing their brothers with worry.  
"They will make it, won't they Athos?" Porthos suddenly asked, tears on the edge of falling down. The Captain gulped and grabbed d'Artagnans hand to squeeze it slightly. But he didn't answer. He didn't dare.

A few minutes into their silence Aramis awoke with a gurgled gasp, just to sit upright and cough and choke at the same time. Blood trickled down his chin and onto the think blanket that covered his unclothed torso. Porthos and Athos exchanged a short look, both knowing that blood could indicate to a wound on the inside – Aramis himself had tought them that many years ago,

Porthos manged to get some water into Aramis before he fell unconscious again.

"You know, he told me that he thought about retreating after all of this. Ending the life as a soldier to finally settle down… in safety. He said that he couldn't fight as good as before with his leg and that it would be the perfect moment, now that… that the King was married." A ghost of a smile rushed over his face. "He was so excited as he got the news. The King will soon have kids… his grandchildren."


	2. Chapter 2

After another the bloody coughing fits, Aramis slumped back onto the cot exhausted. Red coloured the skin around his lips, so prominent against his otherwise pale face. His eyes were glassy as they stared at d'Artagnan. The boy had awoke for a few minutes but the blood loss still made him sleepy. "How's he?" Aramis asked, voice hoarse. Porthos sighed as he had answered this same question already three times – but Aramis seemed always to forget the answers in the short minutes of unconsciousness.

"He will be alright, just like you. Lost some blood, but nothing he won't survive." The tall man assured and gently stroked the wet hair out of his brothers face. Aramis seemed to relax at the knowledge that d'Artagnan was fine. Still, he had the feeling that Porthos wasn't completely honest with him, even in his state of confusion and exhaustion he had the feeling there was far too much worry in his friends voice. But was the concern directed towards the young Gascon or towards himself? Aramis tried to read something out of the faces of Athos or Porthos, but his eyes wouldn't focus on them, everything was a blurry mist. And then, only a few seconds later, all this thinking was too much for his muddled mind and he let his mind drift off.

His eyes were still on Porthos, but he didn't see. He noticed voices, dull sound as the one of foodsteps, felt a cold breeze every time someone entered the tent. But the sensations had blended into each other, making it hard for him to concentrate on one thing exactly. He felt burning pain in his pain and a heavy weight on his chest as if Porthos were sitting on him, but then he sat on a chair by his side. Aramis frowned, he didn't understand what had happened to him. He searched in his memories but even concentrating only for a few seconds seemed to much.

"Hey, don't drift off too far." It was Athos who had spoken and disturbed the mix of noises in Aramis' ears – the familiar now the only thing he noticed. He frowned again. Athos sounded so wrong, so unlike Athos. Full of worry, he would have guessed. Why was he worried?

He forced his eyes, he hadn't even noticed he had closed, open and turned his head towards where d'Artagnan laid. There had to be something wrong with his brother if Athos was so worried. He tried to sit up, but his arms wouldn't support his weight and a fire lit in his upper body as he moved. Moaning, he fell back and tried to call out for his injured brother, but all that came out was red liquid. When had he drunk wine? And since when tasted wine so strange? He frowned, he didn't understand.

"He's fine, he's sleeping." Athos put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, holding him down and comforting him in the same moment. "Why… worried?" Aramis breathed out, before Porthos wiped the strange, red liquid from his chin. Gently, careful – as he would break under his touch any moment.

Athos forced a smile onto his scarred lip and in his blurry view, Aramis didn't see the concern still in the Captain's eyes. "I'm not worried, mon ami. Everything will be fine." 

Aramis still felt some strange sensation that not everything was alright, but he couldn't tell why. As both of his brothers laid a hand on his shoulder and pulled the blanket higher he felt warm and safe and he wanted to believe Athos. Exhaustion set in and pulled him in a deep sleep – and Porthos prayed silently that Aramis would wake up again.

After a few minutes of suffocating silence it wasn't Aramis who woke up but d'Artagnan. His eyes fluttered open, immediately registering the concern on his brothers faces. He followed their gaze towards the still form on the cot beside him and his heart skipped a beat. "Aramis!" He almost shouted, as all he was seeing was worry, sorrow and a deathly pale body. Athos walked over to their youngest once he heard his voice and offered him a glass of water. D'Artagnan shook his head and started to move. "Aramis, what-" "He's asleep." Porthos informed him fast as he noticed the panic rise in the gascon's voice – who now let out a breath he didn't know he had held in.

"Drink." Athos ordered, and only as the glass was empty and the boy seemed more coherent he sat back down too. His eyes skipped between Aramis and d'Artagnan before stopping at the lad after the third time. He saw the concern for the marksman in his eyes and the questions he tried to form into words.

So Athos asked: "What's the last thing you remember?" D'Artagnan licked his lips as he thought back and tried to order his muddled thoughts. "We were on the battlefield, outnumbered. I was… stabbed." He then looked down at his bandaged arm just to confirm hi statement. "Aramis, he helped me – saved my life. He was stabbed because of that." D'Artagnan gulped and once again searched for confirmation of his memories and found it in the bloody bandage around Aramis' torso.

"He will be fine, won't he?"

And Porthos wanted to say yes, but the word stopped in his throat. And Athos wanted comfort the lad, he should rest and not worry. But he couldn't lie to him. "His chances are bad." 

They watched how d'Artagnan's eyes widened as he tried to understand what that meant. He took in Aramis' now more detailed and noticed the small dripples of blood around his mouth and how hard it was for the man to breath. He heard the gurgling sound it made when air filled his lungs and then turned his gaze away. He couldn't stand the sight of his normally so lively brother.

"But there is still a chance? I mean, it's Aramis. He cheated death so many times already."

The silence that followed and how his brothers avoided his eyes, said enough for him to know.

"He only wanted to save me." "And he did." Porthos forced a weak smile onto his lips – he knew that this was what Aramis wanted, that his death wouldn't be useless.

"He's not dead yet." Athos then remembered and hoped a little bit that there may still be a chance.

"Aramis is not easy to kill." D'Artagnan then agreed, sensing the sparkle of hope in his brother's voice. "He's a cheater when it comes to death." Porthos huffed as he thought back on the many times Aramis had survived what would have killed any other human being. "Even better as you at cheating at cards." Athos added, then took Aramis' cold hand in his and squeezed it. 

"Do you hear me, 'Mis? Don't you dare die on us or I will haunt you and kill you again. Don't think you can leave us behind." Porthos chuckled slightly, before sagging back in his chair – the lightness gone as fast as it came. "Don't leave us, Aramis." He sighed and closed his eyes. Pictures of the laughing, agile marksman came to his mind. How he laughed and smirked. How he had flirted them out of every situation and how he climbed down the wall of a house from the second floor. Or how he had came back, rescuing them all, after everyone thought he had died as he was pushed out of a window.

A cough from the marksman made everyone look back at him. Porthos held a bowl underneath his chin as he coughed up blood and bile and grimaced as it pained him obviously.

"It's okay." Porthos muttered and helped him drink a little bit to get rid of the metallic taste. After the pain had settled, Aramis took in the men around him, a small smile circling his lips as he saw d'Artagnan awake. "How's your… shoulder?"

"Hurts a little, but it should be okay in a few days." D'Artagnan assured and smiled as Aramis answered, overprotective as always. "Don't move… it yet. Give it… rest… two weeks…at… least." 

"I will." Aramis seemed satisfied with the answer, before a strange look of confusion and exhaustion came onto his pale face. "It's not… d'Art.. you're worried about… is it?"

There's silence for a few long moments, as no one dares to answer – no one dares and no one dares to face the truth.

It's the medic, that had heard most of the conversation, who finally gives the answer. "Have you made your peace with god and yourself yet?" He asked gently, as he had noticed the crucifix around Aramis' neck earlier. The injured man needs some seconds to understand the meaning of it before he shakes his head slightly.

"I fear my… sins won't be… forgiven. But it's not… me I'm worried… about." He breathed, his eyes wandering between his brothers.

"You should find your peace, my son. Shall I send a priest?" Aramis shook his head again.

"D'Artagnan will… live?" The medic nods and explains that he may has lost some blood, but that they were able to stitch him up properly without any lasting damage. That was enough to comfort the worried, battle weary soldier. Aramis smiled, weakly but real. "That's all I need to know…. To find… peace." 

"Don't. Don't talk like this." He catched the sorrow filled eyes of their youngest – and couldn't help but think that d'Artagnan would always be a lad, a boy even, for them, even though he was now older than most other soldiers. "You became a… great man, lad. A good… husband… and honourable musketeer…. Promise me…. One thing." "Stop talking like you're dying!" D'Artagnan almost shouted in denial, but Aramis ignored him. He had made his peace with death long ago.

"Be there… for your children… and Constance. Not everyone… has the chance to be… with their family, like you… do." The Gascon sighed and promised that he will protect them with everything he has. "Constance will be furious if you don't come back with us." "She will… probably slap me… again." Aramis laughed which ended into another painful coughing fit and d'Artagnan felt bad for causing this. But it had always been their way with each other in situations like this. Joking, acting as if it wasn't THAT bad. Denying.

"Athos." Aramis said as he breathed out, causing his voice to be as quiet as a whisper. He searches for the eyes of their Captain, searches for the sorrow and guilt, he knows he would find in there. But there is also love and a gentleness not many get to see.

"It's not your… war. Not your choice… not your…. Guilt." Aramis knew that his words wouldn't bring the guilt-ridden man much comfort, but still he hoped that they had at least some effect.

"You're a…. good man, Athos. Don't think… otherwise. A great… Captain. Promise me, mon ami…. Don't … lose yourself… again." Now there was pain in Aramis' eyes and a plea Athos couldn't deny. As much as he knew he would long for the bottle, he couldn't fail Aramis in such a way. So he promised. He promised he would live on, wouldn't feel guilty, would stay Captain and would be there for Sylvie.

"Porthos… brother." Aramis closed his eyes for a short moment as everything went blurry, before he looked at his brother. "Promise me… that you will not… mourn for… me. Be there… for Anne, for… my son… my…. My grand…children someday. Protect…. them… Please." He grabs the hand of Porthos and squeezes it as hard as possible as the tall man refuses to look at him. "Don't force me to this promises Aramis. I can't promise you to not mourn for you. You are my brother, you can't leave me behind like this. And you can't force me to make such a promise."

Aramis frowned, he didn't want that his brother would mourn because of him, but he understood.

"Then… promise me… at least… that you will live on… for Elodie and…. My _family_." It had been the first time Aramis dared to call them so, to admit it so openly. A few times, whispered in prayers at night when he was alone and only god was able to hear him – he dared to speak out their names. But even then, he never dared to call them his family, his son or his wife. Because they weren't. They were the Queen regent and the King. And he was a common soldier. But now, one time he needed to admit it and he didn't care who heard.

"Louis, my son… help him find the… right path. Anne… make sure… she doesn't mourn… too long. Protect… them, mon frere."

"I promise." Porthos breathed out even though he wanted to deny even this, because that meant that Aramis had finally made his peace and knew that everyone he loved was in save hands. 

His shaking fingers found his crucifix and he lifted it up to his lips one more time to kiss it. He still held it in his cold hand as he closed his eyes in exhaustion. He coughed again and Athos turned him onto his side, so the blood trickled out of his mouth. He took one more shallow breath, almost choking on the thick liquid in his lungs.

"I will never leave you." He then made his promise, clutching at the crucifix harder. He had made his peace and everything was in good hands – in the best. But now, so close to god and somehow so very far away, he felt fear.

"Look… in my… jacket." His voice shook as tried to speak the last words he needed to tell.

"One for all…" 

"And all for one." The others whispered with pain in their voices as they saw his body go limb and the crucifix fall back down out of his hand and back onto his chest.


	3. Chapter 3

**First of all: I'm sorry for the slow updates, but university is quite stressful at the moment and I had to live in another city for two weeks for studys. But now I'm back home and hope to have more time to write again!**  
 **Secondly: Sorry for the short chapter, but it's better than nothing isn't it?**

He stared at the body in front of him, limb and white where no blood coloured the cold skin red. Aramis looked calm and peaceful, and d'Artagnan wondered if his brother really had been ready to die. He seemed so composed, his only fear was for his brothers. Of course was death something they all dealt with on nearly a daily basis, but d'Artagnan didn't know if he was ready to leave. He wasn't scared of dying, if he was he would have the wrong work – still he couldn't imagine to be so calm while leaving this world. He wasn't scared of death, he didn't fear the pain or what would come after it but he didn't feel ready to leave, not yet. He had a family to care for and a life that was worth living. His heart got even heavier as before as he wondered if Aramis hadn't felt the same anymore. The Gascon didn't doubt that Aramis still loved and cared for his brothers in arms, but maybe that hadn't been enough for him to cling to life?

He didn't notice the tear running down his cheek until it fell onto the cold body of his friend.

"His jacket." He remembered what his brother had said with one of his last breaths. "We have to look in his pockets." He explained as Porthos and Athos looked up at him. The usual strength both men normally showed was gone and replaced with deep sorrow and pain and guilt. As no one made a move to leave the side of their lost brother, d'Artagnan forced his wobbly legs to cooperate and walked over to the discarded jacket. It was tossed to the side careless as they had cared for the wounds – in vain.

D'Artagnan searched the pockets until a crumpled peace of paper found his hand. He unfolded it carefully and needed a moment to be able to read the words beneath the dirt. The paper was partly torn and dirty, obviously older than a few days.

"He wrote a testament." He rasped and his eyes filled with water one more time. He really had been ready to leave them, had prepared for it – maybe even wanted it? It seemed as if he had known that this war would be his last one. And suddenly, the youngest of them remembered what Aramis once had told him.

 _"This last time, mon ami. It will be my last war."_ It had been before they headed towards the borders, as d'Artagnan informed his brother of the declaration of war. Then, the statement seemed less worrying than now. The Gascon had thought that Aramis simply thought about giving up his commission – this hadn't been a secret then or now anyway. Not only the marksman, but also Porthos and Athos grew older – older than most soldiers got – and slowly their age got noticeable. They all had thought about retiring, and d'Artagnan understood. But now, with the testament between his fingers, he wondered if Aramis meant something other. Maybe he had already guessed that he would fall, maybe he wanted it.

"What does it say?" Athos suddenly interrupted d'Artagnans thoughts, who hadn't even noticed that he was lost in them.

"It's – it's just a list." He said a little disappointed. He had hoped for some encouraging words, something to ease his pain but on the other hand he knew that nothing could take this kind of pain away.

"The Crucifix… The Queen regent is supposed to have it back. His bible, the one from his mother, is for the King." D'Artagnan stopped a second to gulp down the tears that came up, unfortunately the burning in his chest stayed. "Porthos-" it had been the first time the tall man looked up from his closest friend. "He wants – wanted – you to have his guns." Porthos looked at the weapon belt that laid to his feet, stared at the guns as if they had offended him. He didn't want them, they were Aramis. He had loved them. Porthos didn't feel worthy enough for these beautiful weapons. Nevertheless his trembling hands grabbed them and turned them around as he admired the detailed engravings.

D'Artagnan looked back at the short list in his hand – there were so few things that were important to Aramis and so few people. "Athos, you shall have his rapier." The swordsman doesn't nod or said anything, he had heard the words but wasn't able to answer them now. He still held the cold hand of his friend in his and wasn't ready to let go just yet.

D'Artagnan sat down as he tried to compose himself, stop the tears from falling and his hands from shaking. "His apartment… it's for me."

Aramis once had bought an apartment in Paris, long before his commission as a musketeer. He had never told anyone how he was able to pay for it, as a normal soldier got barely enough money for food and some wine. Eventhough the marksman had soon decided to live in the garrison, he still used the apartment occasionally. It was big enough for a family of four to live in, with two bedrooms and a big kitchen. D'Artagnan still lived in the garrison with Constance, but the lonely room became too small for their family. But with the small salary of d'Artagnan as a musketeer it was hard to find anything in Paris.


End file.
